


Umbrella

by Justcannibalthings



Category: Original Work
Genre: Dark, M/M, Mentions of Rape, Rain, Rape, mentions of abuse, mentions of everything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-04
Updated: 2017-06-04
Packaged: 2018-11-08 17:47:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11086740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Justcannibalthings/pseuds/Justcannibalthings
Summary: Rain falls from the sky. I press on. Currently turning this into a full work.





	Umbrella

The rain continues to drop from the sky, threatening to wash away all the graffiti and gum that litters the streets, and it does so selfishly, despite the grumbles of the people passing me. A woman is rummaging in her bag, presumably looking for her keys, or one of those tiny umbrellas women have. Women keep everything in their bags. I don’t know how they do it, because the canvas weight attached to my back is absolutely bursting at the seams- and I mean that literally, it is so full of books and gym clothes and probably a half eaten sandwich, that it is literally tearing at the shoulders of the straps. I lean on the shelters wall, watching the rain and trying my very hardest not to let my cancer stick go out. I exhale, watching the smoke float into the atmosphere to help the cars and the factories rip apart our o-zone and I rest my head against the cold reinforced glass, letting the tar coat my lungs. If I concentrate hard enough, I can feel myself dying.

 

I thought back to the recent years and how much I had changed, I’m probably the only person who was better off with their abuser. If that’s what you want to call it. Abuser implies that I am a victim and I refuse to give him that satisfaction. I refuse to give any of them that satisfaction. The cigarette reaches its end and I drop it to the floor, I don’t bother stomping it into the pavement, the rain will put it out. Not that it matters, there isn’t exactly anything flammable around apart from me. I look out at the blurred street lights and let my thoughts run away, dragging me behind by the coattails.

 

_The light is blinding, but I force my eye open anyway, I look into the mirror trying my hardest to focus on my reflection and not the throbbing below my forehead. My eye looks like the palette of a frustrated painter; made up of the blacks, blues, and the made up colours that discover themselves when anger takes over. I place a wet flannel onto my eye once again, trying to at least reduce the swelling enough that it doesn’t look so fresh. There are only so many times you can walk into a door. I shove on my favourite jeans; faded and torn, I can’t remember if I brought them like that. That’s the bonus to getting your ass kicked, and your bones broken if you’re really bad, it gets you nice stuff as an apology. Sometimes it works. I finish dressing and lift up my bag onto my shoulders. It’s threatening to rain outside, I can hear the thunder but the sound of water hitting the roof is yet to take over. There’s probably a storm coming._

 

I’m snapped back to the present by the gentle scream of old brakes and the familiar sound of the bus dropping to open its doors. I can’t see the number on the bus; the side just says zero. A bus that goes back to the start is the last thing I need but I get on anyway. I’m briefly exposed to the weather while I wait for the previous passengers to disembark. It stings when it hits my coat; forcing dampening material against cuts that will probably add to the litany of scars I’ve obtained over my brief existence. Some of them probably need stitches but for now I’ll just let them stain the pavement. I shove some money into the till at the front and walk past the ticket machine, I’m not going anywhere in particular and it’s unlikely there will be inspectors on the bus at this hour, despite the slight eye roll the driver thinks I don’t notice when I remain silent after giving away the last of my change. It probably wasn’t enough for a ticket anyway. I take a seat at the very back; leaning against the end of the bus. I can feel the heat from the engine penetrating through the layers of various materials meant to stop the scorching heat of the motor from scalding me. I stare out the window like the most cliché teen drama character in existence and think about rainbows and angst ridden vampires.

_In hindsight the best decision I had made was not this one. Whatever he decides to do to me to amend this is most definitely at least partially my fault for not hiding it better. I am soaked through to my soul, which sits heavy inside me, like the dirty secret of a sordid affair or secret abortion is sitting on my lungs and starving me of oxygen. In reality I’m just winded from a sharp blow to my stomach. ‘a fag’ he spits, literally spits, like the word leaves a bad taste in his mouth. He shoves me against the wall, the calloused hands of a manual labourer press against my neck lifting me up just enough to make it difficult to breath, it combines itself with my already winded stomach and I start to gasp for air. He drops me and I land on my knees, one hand on my neck the other wrapped around my stomach as I double over. I hear the sound of a zip and a buckle; I look at him in silent prayer still not daring to make eye contact. ‘Do what a fag does’ he growls, voice full of malice and disgust, and I realise he’s found a whole new way to break me._

 

I place a hand against my heart, feeling it force itself against my ribcage, over and over in rapid succession. I force myself to take a deep breath, to let the old air filter out my lungs, and allow the sweet, sweet taste of strangers’ perfumes and sweat, which sit stubbornly in the enclosed environment of the bus, to flow eagerly into my body, desperate to let my lungs continue their work. I let my hand drop, it seems a little redundant to have it there anyway it isn’t doing anything, just reminding me that I’m alive. Still. I look at the window; my heavy breaths have left a layer of white on the glass. I draw a serpent in a figure eight in the fog, allowing it to curl in on itself and consume its own tail. I place my hand beside the serpent, not quite ready to rub it away, and begin to tap on the window one finger at a time; ring, middle, index. One two three...one two three...

 

_The water drips from the pipe into a stagnant puddle on the ground, one...two...three...one...two ...three. It doesn’t stop; I don’t really know how long it’s been. It was raining when I got here, and I presume this pipe is linked to a sewer which would mean it still is, but I could be wrong. I’m not the only one here, but I think I’m the oldest. Nobody in here looks older than me anyway, but nobody speaks. It hurts to sit down, and my jaw hurts. The bad taste in my mouth isn’t metaphorical. They seem to like me because I don’t cry, and I don’t fight. They don’t know it’s because they aren’t the first. They’re too egocentric and self obsessed to entertain the idea that somebody else got to me first. I don’t know if they’d give a damn if they did though. Maybe they’d be rougher. Maybe I’d be worth less. Maybe I’d be dead. The door groans and protests against itself being opened and a short man with an untamed beard, and a grease covered shirt enters the room and spits onto the floor. He sticks out a grubby index finger and points at me, curling the finger in and extending it again, gesturing me forwards. I stand and walk towards him, and he grabs my arm and exits the cell, closing the door behind him. Someone hands him a twenty and I’m turned around roughly, before being dragged towards a room I’ve become far too familiar with. It hurts to sit down, and my jaw hurts._

 

A man is leaning over me, clicking in front of my face. “Last stop kid” he says. I look at him, and give him half a nod. He looks back with what I assume is a hint of concern, and goes back to inspecting the vehicle. I stand, placing my bag onto one shoulder and step off the bus; back into the penetrating cool of the night. I stand there for a few minutes, water continuing to rain from the sky drenching my already soaked clothing, before I start walking; what else am I supposed to do? I keep my head down trying to keep the water out my eyes. My hoodie is water-logged; I can see slightly larger droplets falling from the elasticised bottom. I watch my feet make tiny splashes in the thin layer of water covering the pavement. Shoving my fingers into the tight pockets of my jeans, I let my thumb remain exposed and allow myself to half skip over a puddle. My legs are protesting against all the movement; I’m malnourished, fatigued and probably dehydrated. Unfortunately my body is very aware of the fact that, realistically, I need to stop. I make a right down an alley, to at least give myself a bit of respite from the wind; I see that a few of the entrances have dipped into the building leaving a little bit of shelter from the rain. I sit down in one of the gaps, pulling my legs in and resting my head on the soaked denim clinging to my knees. Everything aches.

 

I must have dosed off, because when I open my eyes it’s a lot darker than it was before, and the rain has began to slowly cease. I rub my damp face with a slightly less damp hand; I don’t even have anything to change into. It’s only now that I realise there is a man stood directly in front of me. He’s well dressed and is clutching what looks to be quite an expensive briefcase, the kind that isn’t solid, but that is used to hold files and can be slung over a shoulder. The other hand grasps an open umbrella. “It would be of great use to me if you would remove yourself from the step.” His voice is deep, almost hoarse; like it isn’t used enough. He has an accent too; its thick but he speaks with such certainty and calmness that it doesn’t make him hard to understand. I scramble off the platform and step awkwardly to the side, enabling him to walk past me. He slides a key into the door, on the first try as well which is my experience is quite an achievement, and follows the door in. He glances at me before closing the door with a polite nod of thanks. I am alone again as I sit back down on the step, the rain is starting to fall heavy again as the city goes to sleep.

 

_There is no sound aside from that of grunting and the deafening sound of skin on skin. The smells of sweat and cheap vodka mix in with the smells of rotten wood and mildew which sit heavy in every molecule in the air. I can’t move my arms to even try to shield myself, I close my eyes and let them water, but I’m slapped by a sweaty palm and told ‘I didn’t pay for whining’. I flitch more from surprise than pain, it’s a bit like stepping on broken glass with a busted leg; what more damage can it do? I cringe and bite back the urge to empty the contents of my stomach through my mouth when his moans get louder; I know what’s coming. Ah innuendo, my only respite from this is my wit and I’m momentarily brought to a time of happiness; of school uniform and obscene amounts of homework. But the break is short lived and as I feel his weight momentarily land on top of me while he reaches his, no doubt cheap, end I’m brought back to the present; and to the pain. I daren’t open my eyes until I hear the unseemly sound of a zip and a belt buckle. I sit up slowly; no matter how many times it happens I’m always shocked by just how much blood can come out of one orifice._

 

I sit up and feel nothing but my lungs hungrily grabbing at the air; the smells have dissipated and the pain is gone. I curse under my breath and run a hand through my grubby hair, pushing my hood off in the process. It’s still raining. I reach instinctively for my bag but feel something lukewarm in its place. I cock my head to the side and am greeted by a take-out cup; I lift it to my lips and breathe in the smell of half cooled coffee. At this point I’m too exhausted to really care about what’s in it; I can’t afford to be fussy with where I acquire nutrients. Despite its unpleasant temperature I can still feel my innards warming as I selfishly polish off the Styrofoam container. I lift my hood back up and stand, hoisting my bag back onto my shoulder. I let myself lean naturally towards one end of the alley and walk. I have no where important to be, I might as well see some of the city. 

 

I walk with my hands in the open-ended pocket of my outerwear, and do my best to avoid puddles; not that it makes a difference with the amount of rain which has already managed to seep into my clothing. I need to find somewhere warm, I can feel my toes going numb and remember a vague fact about that being the first sign of pneumonia. I always used to see myself as the smart one in any given setting, the highest IQ in the room. I realise now I was probably using facts and inappropriately dark humour to guise what really was. I was always quite morbid; didn’t cry at funerals, didn’t feel bad for other people. Not even the ones I shared a cell with. At some point early on in my childhood, probably around the same time as my father’s discovery of the wonders of the pre-pubescent body, I realised nobody cared. I went numb; like the mouth of a sugar obsessed brat at the dentist. 

 

_‘Next one doesn’t make a sound; totally submissive, totally trainable. Bidding starts at 15. Do I hear 15?’ A fast speaking Londoner does his best to sell me; apparently I’m quote a popular bid. I suppose on paper I’m just a run away with daddy issues, that’s pretty easy to explain to a cop. I’ve only been here since yesterday, I assumed at first I would be used as a drug mule, but looking out at the seedy and lust filled faces, and down at my bare chest and legs I would be remiss not to admit to myself the reality of the situation. I haven’t eaten in two days, I’ve just been chained up to others; all around my age, every one of them the poster child of hollow. Half of them probably don’t even know what consent is. I’m abruptly jerked forwards and off the stage. ‘Sold for 30, to the gentleman in the hat’_

 

I’m snapped out of my subconscious by the honking of a horn. Deafening in that moment, it speaks over the thunder, over the pounding of water on pavement, and for a second all that exists in my bubble is the car and my being. I look at it; pupils dilated and let it capture my attention. Time, like the car, is forced to stop at a green light. For the first time in my life, I think about what it would be like not to have one. I entertain the idea of death and its dark and forgiving nature. It is something that holds time; in the commotion of a car crash, or the steady beep of a monitor, while simultaneously destroying it, along with suffering. The man that stills when his heart finally gives up is never something I associated with pain. My knees comply, dropping down to surrender and I look up toward the rain despite the burn as hydrogen coats my eyes. A weight slams into me, I am forced toward the ground just as the cars engines drives it forward, going too fast to stop. 

 

_My heart pounds. I can feel it unsettled in my chest. My empty stomach groans in protest and I still myself. I can feel my blood pumping; feel the adrenaline coursing through my body. A tall, hollow man, in old shorts and a recently blood stain shirt is slouched over a girl in the corner; he’s been hitting her for an eternity. She stopped screaming a while ago. As I feel the chemicals push themselves through my system I decide this is not where I want to die. I stand, slowly, carefully. Years of being the outcast in school, of never having a date to prom, finally pay off. The lack of food leaves my usually slightly protruding stomach flat enough to slip through the gap without having to open the door enough for it to creek. I’ve been taking a mental note of when it does that; like you do with old steps so you can sneak in after a vodka infused night out. My bare feet pad lightly against the ground, I twist myself around regularly, letting myself get a 360 degree view. I need to know if someone is behind me. I hear steps coming from behind a rusted door and hide behind it. I suck in a breath as it’s pushed open, I feel the weight pressing my ribcage and try not to let my breathing get any louder. I can hear my pulse. There are two men, who stroll confidently while discussing what sounds like their...conquests. I snap myself out of their world and grab the door, sliding behind it into fresh light. I suck in a breath of air that’s unstained by lust. It’s thundering, and the lightening illuminates the sky. I let out a euphoric laugh, and run._

 

I sit bold up right, breathing heavily. I force myself to calm down, and look around the room. Sickeningly white walls; the smell of bleach. I still with the realisation that this isn’t hell, or heaven. I steal myself enough to look down; a hospital gown. This is the last thing I need, hospitals means questions. Questions mean a guardian and that would mean me going back to him. I rip the IV out my arm. It hurts more than actors in action movies let on, and look around for my clothing. I can’t find anything, but I need to get out of here before somebody realises I’m awake. I take a deep breath in, letting the oxygen make its way to my brain. I walk out the room and head for the exit, not that I know where that is. I can hear someone behind me calling for me; telling me to slow down. I ignore them, and quicken my pace until I’m jogging down the corridors. I daren’t turn my head, but when I exit through the automatic doors, I immediately burst into a full blown run; I recognise the area enough to know where I want to go. The city passes me in a blur, as I run with my bare feet hitting the gravel; I remember the feeling too well but it just makes me run harder and faster. My lungs protest, as does my stomach; using the little energy it obtained during the period I was hooked up to god knows what. The rain is pounding against me, and my bare legs feel raw and I run along the pavement towards a bridge. I run until I’m about half way and climb up onto the ledge. I allow myself to look down. The water below is calm, and it’s a high enough fall that I can’t even tell it’s raining when I look down. A voice which sounds vaguely familiar calls out, it’s panicked and out of breath. “Stop! Stop! Please don’t...don’t do...” I turn my head, the man is hunched over and leaning against his legs. He clearly doesn’t run much. His suit is drenched, water drips from his hair. After a few seconds he looks up at me, time stills. The accent abruptly registers itself in my mind, clicking itself together with his face. Minutes must have passed because when my eyes refocus he’s clutching an umbrella and holding out a hand. I look between him and the pelting waves below. It’s still raining.


End file.
